The Legend of Broken

by Caleb Carr

  The two priests leading Arnem and Korsar walk to the edge of the reflecting pool, while the detachment of Baster-kin’s Guard take up positions by the doorway—a fact that Arnem finds ominous. But he nonetheless follows the priests, as does Korsar; and when the commanders have also reached the edge of the reflecting pool, one priest delicately calls to the men above:

  “I beg your pardon, Eminence, but—”

  The broad-shouldered man turns quickly, and steps to the side of the gilded table. Although graced with angular, handsome features, he scowls out harshly from beneath a bristling shock of auburn hair, the set of his jaws revealing little patience with distraction. Only the light, hazel-grey eyes hint at any gentleness, and even that is overwhelmed by condescension that could easily be mistaken for contempt. A tunic of loose-fitting scarlet wool does little to hide his physical strength, and the overall impression is one of enormous pride that can be supported physically or intellectually, depending on the opponent.

  This is Rendulic Baster-kin, Lord of the Merchants’ Council of Broken, scion of the oldest trading family in the kingdom, the embodiment of Broken’s heritage and worldly status, and, although past forty, an impressive testament to those physical ideals that all of Kafra’s followers strive to attain, but only the most devout achieve.

  Behind him, standing in marked but not unpleasant contrast, is the Grand Layzin. He is a man who possessed a name, once, just as he likely possessed a family; but when his service to Kafra, as well as to the God-King, progressed from simply devoted to so shrewdly capable as to be deserving of authority, both the name and the past life it signified (which the Layzin, like all such children, had forsaken on entering the royal and sacred service) were excised even from official records. Any citizen who now speaks of either can rely on arrest for sedition, a charge punishable by ritual death. The near-divinity of the Layzin’s person is among Broken’s eternal mysteries, and although it must remain—like his image in the reflecting pool—ineffable and intangible, it must also be (again like that reflection) undeniable. After all, a man who, alone in a kingdom of many tens of thousands, can move freely between the sacred world of the Inner City and the vividly material realm of Broken’s government and commercial affairs, asserting authority in both realities, must have some spark of the divine in him. And yet the Layzin himself never claims as much; indeed, he forgoes personal arrogance, embodying instead an earnest holiness, as well as a compassion that not only stands in considerable contrast to his near-absolute power, but has also been the source, during his fifteen years of executing the God-King Saylal’s will, both of his enormous popularity and of the conviction held by the God-King’s subjects that, while the Layzin may not be entirely divine, neither is he wholly mortal.

  As Arnem and Korsar approach the reflecting pool before the dais, both Baster-kin and the Layzin offer further evidence of their complementary natures: Baster-kin puts his hands to his hips in impatient irritation, while the Layzin stands from his chair and smiles generously, honestly pleased to see these two men who have so often risked their lives for Broken and its God-King. Still young (somewhere between twenty-five and thirty years of age, Arnem would guess), the Layzin lacks the overbearing physical power of Baster-kin. His features are far more delicate, and he clothes his slender body not in animal hides, but in layers of white cotton covered by a brocade mantle of gold thread woven into pale blue and soft green silk, a fabric at once heavy enough to mask his stature and delicate enough to accentuate his gentle manner. His hair is golden and straight, and it is his custom to gather it at the base of his skull with a golden clasp, letting it fall freely to his shoulders and beyond. His blue eyes and clean-shaven face radiate warmth, and the smile he offers Arnem and Korsar is sincerity itself.

  “Our deepest thanks,” says the Layzin, “for answering what must appear a peculiar summons, Yantek Korsar. And you, Sentek Arnem.”

  At this slight indication that the gathering of luminaries in the Sacristy has begun its work, the chanting in the catacombs suddenly stops.

  “You are both well?” the Layzin asks.

  As the two soldiers assure the Layzin that they are indeed so, the seated wife of Kafra, obeying some unspoken command, kneels before the Layzin briefly, and then departs through a doorway on the left side of the curtain behind the dais. The shaven-skulled priests disappear momentarily into another chamber, and then return carrying a sloped wooden walkway that they position over the reflecting pool, to allow the Layzin to descend to the floor of the Sacristy: an unexpected and magnanimous gesture, and one of which, to judge by the sour look on his face, Lord Baster-kin does not approve. But the Layzin moves with deft grace to face Arnem and Korsar without the advantage of physical remove, apparently most earnest in his desire to ingratiate himself with them. He holds out his slender, soft right hand, the third finger of which is encircled by a ring with a large, pale blue stone that nearly matches his eyes. Korsar and Arnem bow and kiss this ring, detecting the sweet aroma of lilac on the Layzin’s clothing.

  “You’re late,” Baster-kin grunts, not to the two commanders, but to his own men, who continue to cower by the doorway. Then he looks at Korsar and Arnem. “I trust that they did not inconvenience you.”

  “Not at all,” Korsar replies. “I fear it is we who have delayed them—some signs of activity in the Wood, beyond my lord’s own Plain.”

  Baster-kin exhibits no alarm at the statement; indeed, he scarcely reacts at all. “But I presume it was nothing?”

  “We do not yet know, but we live in hope, my lord,” replies Korsar, in a blatantly disingenuous and uncharacteristic tone that surprises Arnem.

  Baster-kin’s face grows somehow gloomy as his eyes study Korsar; but before more words can be exchanged, the Layzin steps in. “You will, I hope, forgive the presumptuousness of our dispatching these men of Lord Baster-kin’s Guard, Yantek. But the dangers that face our city and kingdom seem to be multiplying every hour, and we frankly feared for the lives of Broken’s two greatest soldiers. Did we not, Baster-kin?”

  “Yes, Eminence,” Baster-kin replies. “We did.” The man is still brusque, still very sure of himself. Yet he is genuine, too, or at least he seems so to Arnem. Unlike his commander, the sentek has never felt resentment or incomprehension in Baster-kin’s presence: the Merchant Lord’s frequent bouts of blatant rudeness strike Arnem as no more than plain honesty fired by an undeniably superior mind, one that labors tirelessly in the cause of patriotism; and this opinion is the source of the muted but genuine admiration that Arnem feels toward the most powerful secular official in the kingdom. “We have too great a need for both your talents now,” Baster-kin continues, speaking directly to Arnem and Korsar, “to see you fall prey to drunken cutthroats. Or madmen.”

  Arnem’s brow arches: is Baster-kin, who has lackeys in every part of Broken, aware of what the sentek and Niksar have seen and heard tonight?

  Korsar bows deeply—to the Layzin. “You honor us both, Eminence.” Rising, the yantek offers Baster-kin a small inclination of his head. “As do you, my lord. I have brought Sentek Arnem, as you wished. But I fear that I have dispatched his aide, Linnet Niksar, back to the southern wall. Should the activity in the Wood develop, we thought that it would be best to have an officer that we all trust in charge.”

  Surprise piles on surprise, for Arnem, and he again glances at his old friend: it is as close to an acknowledgment that Korsar is aware of Niksar’s role as a spy, working for the men in this room, as the old soldier has ever come; and it is a very risky thing to say. Yet Korsar seems unmindful of danger: “Not that I think it will come to anything, Eminence. A few torch lights, the Bane Horn sounding, some vague shouting—nothing more.”

  Shouting? thinks Arnem. It was screaming, and well he knows it—unless he did not believe my report. What’s he playing at?

  “Beyond that,” Korsar concludes, “I confess that I have seen little, inside the walls or out, that would indicate a desperate state of affairs.”

  �
��The Bane have learned new ways,” Baster-kin says, eyeing Korsar more critically. “They behave more like the deadly vermin that they are with each day’s passing—we chase them into one hole, and they strike from any of a dozen others.”

  Korsar makes no reply, but cannot keep a glint of dismissal from his agèd eyes; and if I can catch that look, Arnem realizes, then how much more quickly can Baster-kin?

  And, to be sure, Baster-kin reacts with an expression of distaste—or is it regret?—and a disappointed shake of his head. Striding down the wooden walkway that spans the pool, the Merchant Lord descends to the soldiers, but with none of the grace that marked the Layzin’s approach.

  “May I ask what these ‘new ways’ are, Eminence?” Korsar says, his voice carrying a hint of continued skepticism. “There was mention of sorcery, in your summons …”

  “A necessary ruse,” the Layzin replies, “to mask the true nature of the danger from those who have witnessed its effects.” The Layzin sighs heavily, deep distress revealing itself ever more in his face and voice. “It was, in fact, poison, Yantek. We do not yet know from which woodland creature they extracted the substance, but its effects are”—the sacred head bows, and the gentle shoulders slacken—“fever—painful sores throughout the body—all … brutish … savage.”

  Korsar’s eyes go wide with what Arnem hopes the others will not recognize as disbelief. “Poison?” the yantek repeats. “In the Inner City?”

  “Yantek Korsar forgets,” Baster-kin declares, “that my own Guard patrol the entrances to the Inner City.” Seemingly incensed by Korsar’s skepticism, Baster-kin steps but inches from the yantek. “And it was they who were struck down by those misshapen little heretics.”

  “The poison,” interrupts the Layzin, placing a hand gently on Basterkin’s chest and guiding him a few steps away, “was introduced into a well outside the Inner City gates. Near a military post. We must suppose that the Bane hoped that some of the tainted water would find its way inside, or that, once loose, the illness would spread like plague—for its effects are similar to that worst of all afflictions …” The Layzin’s voice grows soft, and his delicate eyes fill with dread. “Broken is nothing without the God-King, Yantek. I need not remind you that Saylal has not yet been blessed with an heir, and should the line that began with the great Thedric—”

  “With Oxmontrot,” interjects Korsar, causing no little surprise throughout the room: the Layzin is not a man to be interrupted like any other, and he is even less one to be corrected on questions of royal history and faith. But Yantek Korsar persists: “Surely Your Eminence remembers?”

  “Oxmontrot?” Baster-kin repeats. The Merchant Lord is indignant, at both the suggestion and at Korsar’s interruption; but he controls his resentment, and calmly presses: “Oxmontrot was a lowborn heathen, Yantek. And, although we owe him gratitude for the founding of this city, he had, by all accounts, lost his mind, by his life’s end.”

  But Korsar holds his ground calmly: “And yet he is still respected as the father of this kingdom. Or does my lord deny as much?”

  The Layzin casts a glance of mild admonishment at Baster-kin, and turns back to Korsar, placing another pale, smooth hand on the yantek’s wrist. He smiles gently, at which Baster-kin’s tone seems to genuinely soften: “I do not deny it, Yantek. But Oxmontrot was unfortunate enough to have died without ever accepting Kafra as the one true god; thus, great leader though he was, he cannot be considered of the divine lineage.”

  Korsar shrugs carelessly. “As you say, my lord. But he was a devout man, in his way.”

  “He was a Moon worshipper, just as the Bane are!” Baster-kin exclaims, losing his momentary self-control. “Are you truly attempting to say—”

  “My lord…!”

  The Grand Layzin of Broken has been forced to raise his voice, if only slightly; but it is enough to make the shaven priests suddenly remember urgent tasks to be performed in adjoining chambers, while the men of the Guard shrink into the Sacristy’s furthest shadowy corners. Arnem would join them if given the chance; but he must stand his ground and support Korsar—provided it does not lead to further inexplicable flirtations with blasphemies that, quite aside from being provocative, are unnecessary.

  The Layzin’s ordinarily cool eyes become quite heated, as he glowers at Baster-kin. “We are not here to discuss ancient history or Yantek Korsar’s views thereof,” says the Layzin, more sternly. “The attempted assassination is the subject at hand.”

  Baster-kin swallows any remaining bile when he looks into the Layzin’s eyes; then he turns his own gaze to the floor and goes down on one knee. “Yes, Eminence,” he says quietly. “I beg forgiveness.”

  The Layzin passes a generous hand over Baster-kin’s head. “Oh, no need, no need, my lord. Rise, I beg you. We are all near distraction, at the thought of the Bane reaching into the very heart of this city. I am sure Yantek Korsar will forgive us.”

  Korsar, too, appears humbled by the Layzin’s words, for all his defiance. “Eminence, I would not wish to appear—”

  “Of course not,” the Layzin replies, again full of sympathy. “But there is more news, Yantek. The God-King has reached a momentous decision—one terrible in its nature, but righteous in its purpose.”

  Korsar begins to nod, almost seeming to smile ever so slightly beneath the agèd grey whiskers, before he very carefully says, “He wishes the army of Broken, led by the Talons, to undertake the final destruction of the Bane tribe …”

  The Layzin’s gentle, pronounced lips part, and his face fills with surprise and approval as he brings his hands swiftly together. “There, now, Baster-kin! Yantek Korsar’s loyalty makes the solution clear to him before ever I voice it. Yes, Yantek, such is the wish of our sacred ruler, and he directs me to charge you with its execution—although the involvement of the entire army hardly seems necessary. Sentek Arnem’s Talons should be more than adequate to the task.”

  The Layzin clearly expects an enthusiastic response from the two soldiers—and is disturbed when neither displays one. Korsar stares down at his boots, shifting from one foot to the other uneasily, then tugs at his beard with his right hand in a similar fashion.

  “Yantek …?” the Layzin asks, mystified.

  But Korsar does not answer; instead, he lifts his head, apparently growing settled in his mind, and looks into Arnem’s bewildered eyes, his message so clear that, once again, no more than a silent reminder need accompany his speedy glance: Remember what I told you—do not support me …

  And then Korsar turns to the Layzin, putting his arms to his sides and inclining his head in deference once more. “I—” The words do not come easily, to one whose life has been obedience: “I fear that I must—disappoint Your Eminence.”

  The proud smile that has lit the Layzin’s face disappears with disturbing abruptness. “I do not understand, Yantek.”

  “With respect, Eminence,” Korsar says, steadying one trembling hand by gripping the pommel of his raiding sword and grinding the tip of its long, straight sheath into the marble floor. “I suspect that you do. I suspect that Lord Baster-kin has already warned you of what my reaction to such a charge was likely to be.”

  “I have?” the Merchant Lord asks, genuinely confused.

  The Layzin glances quickly at Baster-kin, not at all pleased. “Yantek,” the Layzin says, in a hushed, deliberate manner, “you cannot refuse a commission from the God-King. You know this.”

  “But I do refuse it, Eminence.” Sorrow and deep regret grip the yantek’s voice, just as his words tighten Arnem’s own chest. “Although it makes me sick at heart to say so …”

  A hushed awe falls over the Sacristy, as all wait for the Layzin’s next words: “But this cannot be!” he finally cries, staggering back into a nearby chair. “Why, Yantek? Why should you refuse to fight the Bane, whom Kafra has made the very image of all that is unholy?”

  Korsar grips the pommel of his sword hard enough to go white at the knuckles. Arnem, himself in the grip of emotio
ns too profound to express, can see that his friend’s next statement will be his most crucial:

  “It was not the golden god who created the Bane, Eminence.” Having made the break, Korsar can finally look up, strength returning to his voice: “It is we of Broken who must accept that responsibility.”

  A sudden chill runs through Arnem, in part because of the words that he is hearing, and in part because of how closely they resemble words that he has already heard, this night:

  “Visimar …” the sentek whispers, not yet willing to admit that he has so recently encountered the man; nay, not the man: he was a blasphemous criminal, Arnem silently declares, a mage in his own right, one who, worse yet, was the primary acolyte of Caliphestros, Broken’s most infamous sorcerer. Visimar, who pilfered corpses for his master’s rites, and who allowed his very form to be oftentimes transformed by his master, that he might enter Davon Wood unnoticed and fetch out strange animals and herbs and crystalline rocks, all to be used in the creation of evil charms. No, Arnem will not admit to the chance meeting—or was it chance? And if the dead do walk the streets of Broken, what reason can Arnem have to doubt the most chilling of Visimar’s prophecies:

  “You shall hear lies in the Sacristy tonight, but not all the men who speak them will be liars. And it will be your task to determine who disgraces that holy chamber with falsehoods.”

  Arnem turns away from the other men for a moment, clapping a hand to his forehead. “You cursed old fool, Visimar,” he murmurs inaudibly, as his blood races ever more rapidly. “How am I to determine such a thing?”

  One separate conclusion the sentek has already reached, with terrible certainty: as punishment for what he has just said, Yantek Korsar will almost surely be exiled to Davon Wood, the effective death that is meted out to those who spread sedition. Precisely as Korsar himself predicted earlier in the evening, the old commander—the man who has ever been a father, not merely to Arnem, but to the army generally—will not see another sun set over Broken’s western walls. “Kafra’s stones,” Arnem curses in a helpless whisper, despite his surroundings. “Kafra’s bloody stones …” the sentek repeats, with the same soft desperation. “What is happening, this night …?”